


In Between

by calime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death - Mentioned, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: A look at Duncan post-series, post-Endgame.





	In Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brightknightie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightknightie/gifts).



> A most sincere thank you from the bottom of my heart to my beta, to be revealed later. All that is still wrong here is my fault :)  
> Written for the annual Highlander Holiday Shortcuts fic exchange, for Brightknightie. I hope this offering of words pleases you, or at least does not displease.

_"How’re you doing, Mac?" Amanda’s voice floats through the phone._

He doesn’t know how to answer that. 

There are good days and bad days, and there are the days in between.

On good days, he loves and is loved, sure of belonging. On bad days, he fears, mourns, is alone and tries unsuccessfully to hide from oneself, fights and shuts down and yet survives. In between, he lives. 

Good days are old friends near and dear, vibrant, alive, warm, the undercurrent of joy and hope and love running and humming a strong song through the veins of the family one makes for oneself, the extended clan of gladness. Bad days are the white cold agony of loss of trust, of life, of a chance of a do-over, stark bile-bitter taste of failure and guilt and self-recrimination. In between is the comfort of someone somewhere around or away, yet still present, the constant low-level thread of worry, affection and irritation swirling together, arguments born out of love yet not any less cutting for that, because people are still who they are, no matter the love, and still loved, no matter how they remain themselves. 

The world keeps changing enough to keep him on his toes, at least superficially – and it goes faster and faster as time flows on. He changes his name now more often than not, and wonders sometimes what it says about him – is he more certain of who he is without needing the naming magic as a pillar of his being, or is he somehow dissolving, letting go of what he used to be – or is it a bit of both? On some days, he wishes he could dissipate, disappear, just cease to exist with a thought. On others, he still answers the odd challenge thrown his way with, ’I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod’, and doesn’t feel like an impostor. And sometimes he has a fleeting thought that maybe he’s more of a MacNobody of the Clan Noplace, now, and he feels... lighter.

He finds himself less inclined nowadays to stay in one place for long, so he travels. Travelling seems to be both easier and more difficult now, for an immortal with a not inconsiderable level of financial security, yet a need to carry around a long, sharp, deadly and somewhat archaic weaponry. Being an antiques dealer just does not offer the same level of credibility in the eyes of border personnel as it used to, and is liable to have his belongings subjected to a thorough search as often as not. Similarly, obtaining travel documents for a new identity has become more and more complicated in most places, unless you have the support of either a government organization, a good criminal network, or Amanda, who seems to have taken to the nebulous new world of everything IT has to offer like a duck to water. Fortunately, Duncan not only knows Amanda, but she is inclined to indulge him.

"You could make it a thing: the Amazing Amanda’s Brand New ID’s for Immortals, tailored for your needs, satisfaction guaranteed," Duncan jokes after she has walked him through the second new identity of the decade. 

"How do you know I already haven’t made it a ’thing’?" she lifts an immaculately groomed eyebrow at him. "A girl’s gotta eat, and the market for a new identity is much bigger than for stolen art, for example."

He isn’t sure whether she’s joking or not and whether he’d even want to know.

He goes backpacking now and then, for a few months at a stretch, and even longer. There is simple, unadulterated pleasure in trekking through the wilderness, or at least places more sparsely inhabited by humans. Walking through the woods at sunrise, hearing the world come alive, or standing still and just breathing while a full moon paints long shadows on the crisp snow. The crackle of the campfire reminds him of the sound of Connor’s chuckle and the memory is comforting, not painful. He can shut off his thoughts while doing katas on a riverside meadow in the lull of the early northern summer’s noon, when the weather is still at the ’pleasantly warm’ stage and the insects' hum has not reached the heaviness of late July. Diving into the crystal blue of the sea to escape the merciless heat of the sun further south feels like being born anew. He doesn’t often bother looking for holy ground, yet for the most part, challengers are few and far between. He’s not sure whether it’s just luck, or if something’s changed, but he takes the reprieve and does not question it.

Yet it never lasts – sooner or later he grows to dislike his own company. The solitude feels more like a punishment now – though isn’t that what he deserves, he thinks? – and his thoughts get louder and refuse to leave him alone. The flow of katas fails to soothe him more often than not, and when he closes his eyes in a futile attempt to get back into that centered, thought-free place, he just sees bodies falling under his sword, hears the sickening thump of them hitting the ground, Connor, Richie, Brian...

So he drifts back into the cities, towns, villages. The throng of humanity grabs him, almost makes him feel like he is a part of it, makes him less homesick for something he doesn’t know if he can really allow himself to keep wanting, a clan, a family, a hearth and a circle of loved ones. 

He doesn’t feel like settling down for long, yet his hands and heart itch for something to do. Anything too permanent is a no-go, but he discovers, half by chance, that no matter what, most of Western civilization nowadays is constantly in need of a plumber. He takes a few classes, buys a nondescript off-white van, and tentatively puts out an ad in the local newspaper. Amanda laughs like a hyena for some reason when she finds out, and she makes several sly suggestions about alternative ways of exploiting ’the Hot Plumber’ role. 

He finds he enjoys the job more than he expected – it's oddly satisfying to fix whatever mess there is, and while some people clearly take out their frustrations on him, or just live to complain, the majority is just plain grateful, and he gets his fair share of flirtatious smiles from several people who clearly forgot their worries about their blocked sink when they saw him. 

He has people around him, even if he doesn’t let anyone get too close, but he feels comfort being among them, being useful, getting to know the faces before he moves on again. 

There is danger here, too, of unexpected - or expected – memories ambushing him. Sometimes he wonders how the older immortals live with it, when over time almost everything might become a trigger for an emotion, a recollection vivid enough to feel like a punch in the solar plexus.

The smoky tang of a single malt and the burn of the alcohol in his throat suddenly make him feel that if he just turned his head, Fitz would be sitting there next to him, bumping his shoulder, ready to crack a joke. He blinks through the sting of his eyes and feels sad and glad in equal measures, but he sleeps soundly that night.

People bustle in and out of the brightly lit shops, the holiday frenzy in full swing. He smiles at the decorations and little children babbling excitedly, and breathes in and out. A familiar label catches his eye in the perfume shop display and on an impulse he steps in, dips a tiny drop from the tester on his bare wrist, inhales. The warm notes of rose and apricot are achingly familiar ( _a treasure for my treasure, he’d said, pushing a smiling, laughing Tessa down on the bed and kneeling over her to dab drops of the perfume interspersed with kisses behind her ears, on her throat, between her breasts..._ ) and for a while, he walks the streets smiling, feeling as if she’s still there, walking beside him.

Then there’s a sudden sharp crack, like a shot, and another, and another, and flashes, and people are laughing and pointing up at the brilliant showers of fireworks.

He finds himself in a defensive crouch in an alleyway, heart pounding, in a cold sweat, and when he closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply in an effort to calm himself, he sees Tessa lying on the ground, unmoving, blood stain slowly spreading on her chest. Instead of roses he smells blood and lilies, so many funerals, so many lilies, the bile rising into his throat until he vomits in the street, bracing himself against the wall, heaving until he feels hollowed out.

He takes a shower as hot as he can stand it when he staggers back to his apartement, and wraps himself up in a duvet, yet he still feels cold and shivery. He is calmer, just so, so alone and tired of his thoughts. On an impulse, he grabs his phone and dials a number.

Listening to the ringing tone feels like an eternity, time enough to wonder whether the number is still good, whether he should just hang up – it’s not as if his friends have nothing better to do than to cater to his desire for company and his .... neediness - click! the connection is an unexpected jolt.

"Only you would still call in this day and age, darling," Amanda says in the way of greeting, "don’t you know normal people text? Also, happy holidays and happy birthday! Are you still driving that horrible clunky monstrosity instead of a car? How do you get the grease off your katana’s handle? Are you considering a career change yet?"

Duncan would be perfectly happy just listening to her voice wash over him, but there’s a pause for her to get a breath in and apparently his input is expected, because the pause is a bit longer than needed for just a breath. He rallies and offers, "Maybe my thumbs aren’t dexterous enough for texting, or maybe I just wanted to hear your voice." It's meant to come out as a joke, light, but he isn’t sure he manages to pull that off. 

"How’re you doing, Mac?" Amanda’s voice floats through the phone. 

He doesn’t know how to answer that.

"I’m fine," he wants to say, but chokes on the words.

He can hear Amanda inhale sharply. "Mac?" she asks, some carefully leashed concern still seeping into that one syllable.

He wants to tell her not to worry, that everything is fine, to brush it off, make a joke or two, end the call.

Instead he says, slowly, "I’m...alive. I’m living, I think. Or trying to."

Another sharp inhale. Then, briskly, "Good. That’s good. That’s what you’re supposed to do."

A pause. A breath. He can almost feel her collecting herself and then she pounces.

"Where are you now? Ah, doesn’t matter where, you can be in Paris in – what’s today, the 21th? yes? – in two days, let’s say? Meet me in the La Réserve Paris on the 23rd. Don’t worry, I know someone, I am booking it as we speak. You are taking me to the Opera for your birthday, and a dinner, of course, and dancing."

He flails around for something to say. " _I'm_ taking _you_ to the Opera for _my_ birthday?"

"Yes, darling, do try to keep up," with familiar exasperation and impatience, "we’re going to make your living a bit more alive. Also, do show up in something else than plumber chic, Duncan, if you remember how. Bye, love, see you in Paris." 

Click! The call ends. He stares bemusedly at the phone and sighs. Apparently he needs to find a way to get quality tickets to the Paris Opera in two days. And a plane ticket. And...

There are good days and bad days, and there are the days in between.

On good days, he loves and is loved, sure of belonging. On bad days, he fears, mourns, is alone and tries unsuccesfully to hide from oneself, fights and shuts down and yet survives. In between, he lives. 

He stands and stretches and suddenly he feels slightly more alive.


End file.
